I worked hard today to try to get caught up on my art commission work and I made some headway. As I was working, I spent a lot of time thinking about writing, too, and I recalled a project I started four years ago and sort of lost track of. At that time I stumbled across the story of two 73 year old twin sisters who died of natural causes only hours apart. They had become reclusive and were not discovered for a while. There is more to the story of Joan and Patricia Miller, and if you are interested, you may click on the photo of them to go to a brief article.

At the time I pondered why the twins withdrew from society and how their close relationship played out. I came up with the idea for them to take turns writing in the same journal each day as a way to see how their lives changed over time, how they communicated, and how they were different and similar.

Of course, the names were changed to protect the innocent--they became Darcy and Lucy. The diary begins in 1999, about 13 years before the death of the twins. I am not sure if this will go anywhere, but it is my very loosely organized plan that their writing will change as the years go by. At first it will be somewhat stilted and have almost a performance quality about it. Then it becomes more introspective and eventually perhaps disjointed from some sort of dementia which is their common enemy. Or perhaps their minds and writing will become so entangled that it is as though one person is writing toward the end. I might even employ some form of intertextuality which could blur the boundaries even more. The title was inspired by a quote which is often attributed to Crazy Horse, a holy man of the Lakota.

Here is example of an entry. This one in the voice of Lucy.

A GOOD DAY TO DIE

January 11th, 1999 (Lucy) A MESSAGE FROM HEADQUARTERS​When I got up this morning, the sun had already painted a faint white hole in the sky. Darcy was walking up and down the mile-long dirt road leading to our house. As I watched her out the window, it occured to me that she has been walking so long that her steps have taken on a robotic rhythm, thoughtless iambs, heel to toe, repeated and repeated and repeated, always turning back at the bridge to start another recursive line.

A walk sounded like a good idea, and I would have joined her, but I know how much she values that time alone. Besides, some of the items on my to-do list had begun to orbit relentlessly through my mind. Go to the bank. Buy the groceries. Remember to stick religiously to a low fat diet this week. Pick up the dog’s heartworm capsules from the vet. Take the dog to the groomer.

With a mental sigh, I watched from the porch as Darcy turned from the path and began climbing the slope of our driveway to the frame house on Tyner Hill where we had moved 40 years ago. As she rounded the bend in the drive, I saw Jason’s small frame crouched at the base of the twin oaks. Silhouetted as he was against the overexposed sky, our neighbor’s son had a halo of golden light wavering around him, making him seem otherworldly, somehow protected. At eight years old he was at the zenith of his childhood.

“Hey, Jace! Whatcha doin’?” I heard Darcy call out.

At first I thought he hadn’t heard her, so intently focused he was on the mound of objects at his feet. But then he raised his face toward her as she approached. Scattered around him in the dry grass was an army of small plastic soldiers. Designed on a scale of one inch to one yard, the tiny men were set up purposefully around a mature ant hill.

“What’s all this?” Darcy asked.

“I’m making a story,” the boy reported matter-of-factly. “These are the good guys and they are being attacked by the robot ants,” he elaborated as he made minor adjustments to a couple of the brave figures who had fallen over.

“Who’s winning?”

“Well… it isn’t looking so good for my men right now. But help is on the way. We just have to hold out until the courier gets back from town,” Jason said as he pointed to a lone horseman surrounded by towering petunias.

“I hope he makes it back in the next fifteen minutes or you might miss your bus."

Jason’s face scrunched up briefly to show his disapproval for adult plans, but just as suddenly he was drawn back to the imagined standoff. Knowing she might as well let him play out the scene, Darcy trudged toward the kitchen to wash the breakfast dishes. Behind her, Jason watched the messenger soldier intently. I could almost imagine him forgetting for a moment that it was indeed left up to his own human control to move the man closer to the action if he wanted to save the trapped troops. Ultimately their fate lay in his hands.

Later that afternoon, as I pushed the wheelbarrow, half-filled with potting soil, over to the flower bed by the curb, being especially careful not to crush the heroic potential of any of the boy’s plastic people. I picked up a peripheral movement in the skies to the west. High above the fences, river and trees, like a dark, unraveling vine, a circling hawk spiraled just above the treetops, riding the currents down, sketching fleeting shadows on the ground as though repeating again and again a dark prediction.

<Mentally Insert Stanley Here>

Since I am working with a different laptop, having recently fried my Mac, I don't have my Stanley pencil image... But I am coping and glad to be working. Hoping to see everyone on Wednesday.

You’re is digging in the garden and find a fist-sized nugget of gold. There’s more where that came from in this hilarious story of sudden wealth.

Write about something ugly — war, fear, hate, or cruelty–but find the beauty (silver lining) in it or something good that comes out of it.

An asteroid and a meteoroid collide near Earth, and fragments rain down onto the planet’s surface, wreaking havoc. Some of those fragments contain surprising elements: fossils that prove life exists elsewhere in the galaxy, for example.

A kid comes out of the school bathroom with toilet paper dangling from his or her waistband.

Okay, I don't really hate people. But I am definitely in my hermit mode, just staying home, reading and painting. For several weeks I have been working primarily on commissions, which is much more difficult than painting whatever comes from my imagination. The challenge, at least for me, is to take someone else's vision or idea and make it my own, to somehow imbue the work with my take on it. Sometimes it takes a while for that to happen, then suddenly I can tell a difference in the work--it flows more easily and is much more effortless. Perhaps that will happen today.

Meanwhile I am halfway through the alphabet. And just the fact that those letters hang over my head each day seems to always guide my awareness with regard to my explorations. For example, today I was cleaning out a box of paperbacks and came across one of John D. MacDonald's thrillers, this one titled, A Tan and Sandy Silence. Beginning in the sixties, MacDonald wrote a series of 21 books featuring the character Travis McGee and each one was titled according to a different color. Perhaps not great literature, but I think the writing is pretty good. So I think I will read one today--it will help me procrastinate with regard to my painting.

And since I am on letter M today, I think I will spend a little time perusing some Modern Art. I am always fascinated when I read about specific art movements, how they developed and how they are represented in history. It often seems to me that such an analysis of movements eventually implodes on itself. I mean, what movement is currently happening in art? A hundred years from now how will this generation of artists be classified? With so much variety in the art that is currently being produced, is there any one style that is dominant?

​I found this interesting graphic:

It explores a limited time period and offers me some terms that I am not familiar with. I can hardly wait three days for Letter P so I can explore "Proto-Graff."

And one of the terms I have never encountered is "Superflat." A brief search led me to one of the masters and founders of this type of art, Takishi Murakami, often called the Japanese Andy Warhol. Here is one of his works:

I will close today with this:

"In the 'Nude Descending a Staircase,' I wanted to create a static image of movement: movement is an abstraction, a deduction articulated within the painting, without our knowing if a real person is or isn't descending an equally real staircase."--Marcel Duchamp

Yesterday, I was in a bad mood. It happens. So I decided to paint a little and see if it made me feel better. I worked on this 12" x 12" little painting inspired by the classic Cupid and Psyche, and I was feeling better.

Until I knocked a jar of dirty paint water over onto my keyboard. The crazy thing is that it seemed to be working fine except for the letter L. And when I tried to title my blog, I realized that there was a problem. Since then it has gotten worse and I can't do a lot of other things.

So, I will keep it short today. Maybe my laptop will dry out and recover. Maybe not. I guess I will go paint and see if I feel better...

"Most people dream a dream when they are asleep. But to be a writer, you have to dream while you are awake, intentionally. So I get up early in the morning, 4 o'clock, and I sit at my desk and what I do is just dream. After three or four hours, that's enough. In the afternoon, I run. The next day, the dream will continue."-- Haruki Murakami

When I began my adventure through the alphabet, I couldn't help but think of Sue Grafton and her alphabet series of murder mysteries. When asked what the inspiration was for this series, she said:

"I was always fascinated by mysteries that had linking or related titles. I knew about John D. MacDonald whose titles were connected through color and Harry Kemelman who joined his titles by the days of the week. One day I was reading ​The Gashlycrumb Tinies, a book of cartoons by Edward Gorey, which is a series of pen and ink drawings of little Victorian children "done in" by various means..."A is for Amy who fell down the stairs...B is for Basil assaulted by Bears...C is for Clara who wasted away," etc... A cartoon light bulb formed above my head and I thought to myself, "Gee, why couldn't you do a series of novels based on the alphabet?" At that point, I sat down and made an alphabetical list of all the crime related words I could think of."

This definitely backs up my premise that using the alphabet as an organization tool.

(By the way, if you are a fan of mystery, crime, thriller, spy and suspense books, click on the screaming woman above to go to the website, "Stop, You're Killing me," where you can explore these genres--It is organized, of course, alphabetically.)

Challenge

​Write a story or poem that involves a killing. It could be literal or metaphorical.

If you get stuck, consider the Murakami quote at the beginning of the blog. Just pretend you are sleeping and dreaming.

I will close with this last bit of advice from Murakami:

"When I am writing, I do not distinguish between the natural and supernatural. Everything seems real. That is my world, you could say."

Several years ago I started a series of poems and stories titled "Conversations with the Virgin," based on my peripheral attraction to the ritualism of the Catholic faith and my connection with the feminine. According to Facebook, it was exactly seven years ago today that I first posted this story, "Just Wanted to Say," in my blog.

I am including the painting titled "Mary Looks at the Future." It is quite large, 4' x 6', and resides with my friend Dirje. Painted in "dot style," is based on a religious icon, one that repeatedly drew my attention because of the look on Mary's face, as though she somehow knew how things would eventually unfold.

(Funny... this intro sounds sort of like one of those on Turner Classic Movies. Here is my story.)

Just Wanted to Say

So, listen, Lady of Unlimited Wisdom, I have curled around your leg like a cat, overcoming my aloofness, shedding the burden of my loneliness, driven by the bone deep wish just to be scratched. I have snagged your hems intentionally at times and been dragged down the same melancholy path unnoticed by the masses for days and weeks and years.

I admit I have been greedy in my quest for love. Like water thrown wasted on the floor before a thirsty beast, my faith spreads thin and in the end evaporates. But I will settle for the dregs of last morning’s dew, for I have been told by those who know that you have always been the one who holds the answers.

Thank God your gaze is elsewhere focused, for to face your vision under the gravity of such sight would surely signal the end of life as I have known it. And I have known it. I have learned that pain contained can be diluted, allowed to seep from day into night, night into day. And I’ve grown tired, yet I cannot sleep…

* * * *

I went to a funeral yesterday, and after only moments in the church, I was snared by the organized beauty of religion’s patterns. Admiring even the placement of the choir chairs in the loft, I became confused, as usual, by the difference between aesthetics and grace, as I was transported to that childhood place where light once shone so sweetly from a promised shore.​I was twelve, the age of accountability, and the church still held substantial mystery for me. But promises were followed too closely by demands, so, growing cold, I turned deliberately toward the pursuits hinted at by the new boy four rows back.

No cushions on the seats made squirming inevitable, and the wooden pockets on the backs of the benches were always empty of visitor cards. Since we didn’t do that introductory thing, (where visitors remained seated, and regulars, like falsely reassuring, if somewhat curious aliens, stood, turned in all directions, and sought reluctant hands for the shaking) I knew I was on my own when it came to making contact.

I’m not sure what happened to the boy’s real mom, but he had a nice new one with blond hair and soft, petal-colored clothing, perhaps a little too polished to be proper for church, but her husband was an usher and their family always sat near the back. I think I was drawn to them, because I, too, was shiny. Having buffed myself almost raw, I thought that taking off the rough edges would somehow make me less visible. In effect, I had developed a patina that screamed for the whole world’s attention.

But back to the boy. Eddie. More precisely, Edgar Howell, and how he looked at me covertly in the beginning. But then he made friends with the other guys and when they all sat together, they looked at me from what seemed like all directions at once until I felt like a compass, spinning slightly from side to side as though vibrating from unseen forces.

We went on, content with this pattern for a while. But things change. As Eddie grew tall and handsome, he acted more interested, especially when his friends fanned the embers of our smoldering infatuation. And at least once every Sabbath evening that fall, he issued me a personal invitation to accompany him behind the church. I blushed and half-pretended not to hear or understand, until his taunting demands for attention pushed us both off a bit off center and I said, “Okay.”

The audience, astonished, withdrew.

It was November and the wind was cold, and though I think what he really wanted to do was escape to the safety of the sanctuary, he had to follow through on his implied threats of what he would do to me if he got me alone. So he got me alone. And he kissed me with what would surely be described as expertise, until we were both a little breathless and immediately giddy with our newfound guilt. (I like to think the reality was too much to share with his friends and that no one has ever mentioned that moment until now...)

So we met halfway, two rows up for him, two rows back for me, where every Sunday, we shielded each other from friends and family, as we held hands religiously.But things change. Even memories. And I wonder if I’ve remembered the truth. Maybe I’ve dropped important sensory data along the path on my way to today. And over-edited reality has taught me there are truly moments that should not be taken for granted. So I thought today about that kiss, and how it made me late for Bible class…

I thought about the teacher named Birdie, and how I remember liking her because she loved her husband, tall and quiet and slim… She seemed afraid of the rest of the world, but I could tell she had no fear of him. She was a tiny, dark woman with finger-waved hair, and I liked to watch her, not because she was spectacular, but because she had no need to watch me.

They had the most beautiful daughter in the world. I decided she was a model maybe, because she almost never came to church. I assumed her job kept her busy, you know, traveling the globe, tossing back her glowing, golden hair, shoulder length, and gray-blue eyes that moved calmly from face to face never moving away too quickly. She had a small dark mole beside her pouty mouth, and she was tall, with nice ankles and soft hands. I remember pretending she was a mirror reflecting the real me.

I grow sad thinking of Birdie and her husband and her kids. I remember one Sunday in particular, when Birdie’s die-cut felt Zacheus refused to stick to her die-cut Sycamore tree. She tried over and over to make it work, but the fourth time he fell to the floor, she started to cry. Very quietly. And somehow I knew that her son, whom I had never even seen, would not be coming home from Vietnam.

I wanted to touch her hand that day, but I didn’t, and since I was developing the habit of living without words, I couldn’t tell her that somewhere, someone knew how she felt. All I could do was pick up the felt pieces, lay them neatly in their precisely cut storage places, and hope they would be ready to stick the next time she pressed them on the sturdy tree.​And, Lady, I have to admit, sometimes when I talk to you, it’s really Birdie’s face I see, and well, I just wanted to say, how sorry I’ve always been about your son.

Still making my way through the alphabet... nine letters in, so I naturally turn inward. I have taken the Meyers-Briggs personality test many times, and without deviation, I am always determined to be an INFP (introverted, intuitive, feeling, perceiving). If you have never taken the test, it is one of the most accurate ways to sort out the various personality types that I have come across. Much better than clicking on something on Facebook that promises to give you the secrets of the universe according to your profile picture!

If you have never taken the test, here is a link to a quick version that seems pretty accurate: (Just click on the reading introvert below to open the test in another window.)

While the last three letters of my personality type are a little fluid, some barely falling into a dominant range, the first letter is a dead on description of me--introverted. Of course, much has been written about introverts, mostly by introverts, because introverts are much more likely to write about something that to talk about it!

Introverts sometimes, okay almost always, come across as defensive, perhaps because introversion is usually considered to be a negative trait. I find that I am very hard on myself, as well, for being introverted. I want to be more consistently outgoing, but I also know my own limits.

I like with what psychologist Laurie Helgoe has to say about introverts: "Often confused with shyness, introversion does not imply social reticence or discomfort. Rather than being averse to social engagement, introverts become overwhelmed by too much of it, which explains why the introvert is ready to leave a party after an hour and the extravert gains steam as the night goes on."

By the way, the thing that led me down this path today was a link to an article on Facebook, "Five Ways to Annoy an INFP." (Click on the eye rolling emoji to go to the article.)

Now, I didn't bring this up today because I am totally self-absorbed! I really think this notion of personality types can help us understand others, and it can help us as writers to create believable characters. For example, if you have created a character in a short story or novel, you, as the writer, should be able to take the test as though you are that person. Then analyze the results and let them help predict the behaviors and actions of your character. Sounds pretty involved, huh? Well, being involved is good when you are a writer. And it gives you something to do when you get stuck! Besides, you never know where your mind will go when you head out on an adventure of this kind.

My challenge for you today is to take the Myers-Briggs test and post the results in the comments section of this blog along with a brief statement of agreement or disagreement.

You might also want to investigate famous people who have your same personality type. I have linked my contemplative portrait below to others with INFP personalities. It was indeed interesting to me to see that I am often drawn to the writing and art of those who have my same personality!

I look forward to reading your comments. I will close today with this, one last introverted jab...

"Everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of human freedoms - to choose one's attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one's own way."--Viktor E. Frankl

Almost everyday when I am scanning through Facebook, I am offered a glimpse at my "memories" on this date in years past. This usually consists of photos of my SuperDave grandson, paintings that I have completed or sold, trips I have been on, and things I have read. Yesterday, this book by Viktor Frankl came up. I had been looking at it last year. (Click on the book cover to read the article that discusses the book. It will open in a new window.)

The quote that I open with today is basically the backbone for the book. I was reminded that I am not always diligent about choosing my own attitude, and I allow myself to become a victim of my circumstances. (During World War II, Frankl spent three years in Auschwitz, Dachau, and other concentration camps. Those are some pretty potent circumstances, and it shames me when I consider that my life is nowhere near that challenging.)

Frankl says, "It is the very pursuit of happiness that thwarts happiness." His premise is that people who are determined to live happy lives have a "taker" mentality, whereas people who live meaningful lives have a "giver" mentality that often may actually lead to happiness! The greatest irony here is that living a meaningful life often means that it is accompanied by stress and negativity. Think about it...

And consider these bits of wisdom by Frankl:

Ever more people today have the means to live, but no meaning to live for.

When we are no longer able to change a situation - we are challenged to change ourselves.

Live as if you were living a second time, and as though you had acted wrongly the first time. (I love this!)

And finally this: (These words speak so powerfully to me!)

This uniqueness and singleness which distinguishes each individual and gives a meaning to his existence has a bearing on creative work as much as it does on human love. When the impossibility of replacing a person is realized, it allows the responsibility which a man has for his existence and its continuance to appear in all its magnitude. A man who becomes conscious of the responsibility he bears toward a human being who affectionately waits for him, or to an unfinished work, will never be able to throw away his life. He knows the "why" for his existence, and will be able to bear almost any "how."

Frankl's signature contribution to the field of clinical psychology was logotherapy, which is meant to help people overcome depression and achieve well-being by finding their unique meaning in life.

Today's blog is not exactly about art or writing or even creativity. But then again, how could you even begin to pursue any of these things if you didn't truly believe that you had something unique to say, if you didn't believe that you were unique?​

"Think left and think right and think low and think high. Oh, the thinks you can think up if only you try!"--Dr. Seuss

Today's blog is brought to you by the letter G. As I continue on my path, using the alphabet as my guideposts, parameters, or curbs, I was tempted today to stay on the letter F. I wanted to reference a poem by Robert Frost titled "Nothing Gold Can Stay." Then I realized I could simply use gold as my point of reference!

​Yesterday, when I was posting my featured painting of the day, I selected this one:

Obviously it references the well known scene from Marilyn Monroe's movie The Seven Year Itch where she is standing on the subway grate with her skirt billowing. It is a compilation of several still shots, combined into what I call frenetic cubism. It is 36" x 36", painted in oils, and is titled, "Stay Gold."

This is a reference to the Robert Frost poem I mentioned:

Nothing Gold Can Stay

Nature's first green is gold,Her hardest hue to hold.Her early leaf's a flower; But only so an hour.Then leaf subsides to leaf,So Eden sank to grief,So dawn goes down to dayNothing gold can stay.

Here is a simple, well stated analysis of the poem:

The title of my painting also references, less obviously, the novel The Outsiders by S. E. Hinton, a coming of age story that I always enjoyed teaching at the high school level, and one the students appreciated as well. Hinton quotes the Frost poem in an attempt to explain that nothing lovely can last forever. At the end of the story, one of the dying characters tells his friend to "stay gold," meaning to try to keep alive those highest qualities that are hard to hold onto.

So, I titled my painting "Stay Gold." I wanted to point out that not only was Marilyn's fame and beauty destined to end, the very best parts of her were threatened as well by her success.

I was recently discussing with a friend Monroe's elevated status over equally beautiful women and we decided that part of her appeal was her vulnerability, and that there seemed to be a kind of melancholy that loomed over her. And, of course, it has been repeatedly said that Monroe had a combination of innocence and sexuality. I am very interested in the complexity of such push/pull attractions. Perhaps it is this complexity that draws us to Monroe. It keeps our minds moving back and forth as we contemplate her, much the way my frenetically moving painting keeps the eye moving while portraying a series of expressions and gestures.

Since today is the anniversary of Elvis Presley's death, I will also post my frenetic cubism rendition inspired by his performance in Jailhouse Rock:

As I continue using the Letter G as a point of reference, let's consider gesture drawing. This is defined as the laying in of the action, form and pose of a model or figure. Typical situations involve an artist drawing a series of poses taken by a model in a short amount of time, often as little as 10 seconds, or as long as 5 minutes. Gesture drawing is often performed as a warm-up for a life drawing session, but is also a skill that can be useful for capturing observations of people or animals going about their normal activities, for example, people on the street, performers, athletes, etc. (Wikipedia)

This practice of rapidly capturing can also be useful in creative writing. Try to observe action around you and capture it in a few seconds. This is a great way to record ideas so you can return to them later. Try to do this ten times and be prepared to share some of your efforts with our group Wednesday.

I will close today as I opened, with some words from Dr. Seuss (Theodor Seuss Geisel):"I was saving the name of 'Geisel' for the Great American Novel."

"Whether you're a newspaper journalist, a lawyer, a doctor. You have to organize your thoughts."--Frederick Wiseman

So I have been utilizing the A-Z organizer to prime my writing pump, analyze writing, expand my vocabulary, and generate ideas. As I work my way through the alphabet, I become more and more aware of other methods of organization that are not immediately noticeable. Have you ever noticed how new cars are parked in the car lot? Or why grocery stores are organized the way they are?

Have you ever heard of Knolling? It is the process of arranging a group of related objects in a clean, organized way by utilizing parallel lines and 90° angles. See example above. For some people it is an art form. For others an obsession. (For more info and more examples, click on the art supplies photo above.)

While I am not obsessively neat, I do like to look at examples of Knolling... It is almost like living vicariously through someone else's efforts. And I like neat closets. I just don't like them enough to make my closets look like this:

But I have gone off on a tangent--my intention was to direct my thoughts today by wy of the letter F. Consider this list of words: freedom, finance, flash, failure, folderol, fig-leaf, fortitude, fairness, farming, filigree, fancy, feverish, flaunt, factoid, fortitude, flair, fall, fit, fragment. It is almost like a telegraphic message.

Or they could be lined up from short to long. Or could they? If there are two five letter F words, how do you decide which goes first? And what if you divided the list according to parts of speech? How would you deal with the words that are both noun and verb?

There are probably infinite number of ways that this list could be organized. After all, isn't organization simply rearranging things so they make sense to us or allow us to look at them in a different way?

So, even though today's letter is F, I ended up writing about organization. But at least I am writing. I am getting my mind ready to consider the world around me in a different way. I am calling to the forefront of my mind things I might not have considered otherwise. For example, Andreas Feininger. One of my favorite photographers.

Just thinking of Feininger and his work helped me instantly solve a compositional problem that has had me stymied on a project for several days.

What I am getting at here is that for me, at least, it is productive to let my mind wander, but also to impose some form of organization on it. I have come to think of it almost like fishing. I cast it out, reel it in, cast it out, and so on and so on.